‘Let’s take a bath,’ whispered Della. ‘I’ve been flying, and taking a look around your farm and I’ve been looking forward to a bath all afternoon.’
‘All right,’ said Ed. ‘A bath it is.’
They went upstairs together, Ed leading Della by the hand up the galleried staircase, until they came to the rococo bedroom. Della said, ‘Quite a place,’ as Ed showed her through to the bathroom.
‘Season designed it. She visited the Palace of Versailles once, on a trip to France, and I think it made a lasting impression.’
They went into the bathroom. The tub itself was midnight blue, and the wallpaper was an Osborne & Little design from England, blue peacocks strutting across a white background, like a Rorschach print of stately elegance. Ed ran the faucets, and sifted Swiss herb salts into the water. Della stood before the mirror, tidying her hair.
‘I’m surprised you took this farm on,’ said Della.
‘Oh?’ asked Ed. ‘Why?’
She turned away from the mirror. ‘You seem to like classy living as much as the next man. You’re not dumb. So why maroon yourself out here in Kansas, away from civilisation, and theatres, and anything that’s anything?’
Ed unbuttoned his shirt. ‘Land, and growing things, they’re as much a part of what makes this country worth living in as theatre and smart restaurants. And, in any case, I guess every actuary’s a dumb hick at heart.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ she asked, raising an eyebrow. ‘Well, I hope you’re not too dumb and hickish to unzipper my gown for me.’
She turned around, lifted her hair up from the nape of her neck, and presented her back to him. He stood right behind her, watching both of their faces in the bathroom mirror. The steam from the hot water was already misting the edges of the glass so that it looked like an old and romantic photograph.
Ed tugged the zipper right down the curved small of her back. Then he gently slipped the straps off her shoulders, and pulled down the front of her gown, baring her breasts. In the mirror, he could see how large and rounded they were, and how wide her pink areolas spread. He watched his hand reach around her, and clasp her left breast as if it were a heavy, ripe fruit.
Della stretched her neck back, and kissed him. He pulled her gown right down, and she was standing in front of the mirror naked. The shape of her pale body was punctuated only by the petal-pink spots of her nipples and the gingery plume of her pubic hair.
They said nothing. There was nothing for them to say. Ed stripped off his shirt, and took down his pants. Then he sat on the edge of the tub and clasped Della around the waist, pulling her towards him, so that at last she lowered herself on his lap. As the steam from the running water gradually hazed up the bathroom mirror completely, they were able to see Della opening her thighs wide, and straddling Ed’s legs, so that the dark hard head of his penis could slide its way between the rose-coloured lips of her vulva, right up as far as his black-haired balls; but then they could make out nothing more than two blurred impressionistic figures, two different patterns reflected in a surface like breathed-on mercury.
Ed clutched Della’s soft, big breasts, resting his cheek against her back and thrusting and thrusting until he felt that it wasn’t humanly possible to thrust any deeper. Della threw her head from one side to the other, gasping and shuddering with the feeling of what Ed was doing to her. And when Ed at last ejaculated, she bent forward and said, ‘Oh, that’s beautiful,’ even though she hadn’t reached a climax herself.
Afterward, they sat in the bedroom, wrapped in huge soft yellow towels, watching each other with new awareness. Della hadn’t told him yet, but she didn’t want to sleep with him in his marital bed. The act would only have been symbolic, but it was more than she felt he was prepared to give her, and more than she was prepared to take – at least until they knew each other better.
Ed said, ‘Was I better than Shearson Jones?’
She looked at him wide-eyed. ‘How do you know I’ve ever made love to Shearson Jones?’
‘Have you?’
She smiled at him. Not too broadly. She didn’t want to antagonise him. ‘Would it matter to you if I had?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’m being ridiculously jealous, the way most new lovers are.’
‘Well,’ she said. ‘Shearson Jones has plenty of enviable things in his life. Money, power, influence, and scores of women. But you have plenty of enviable things, too. A farm, and a beautiful wife, and a lovely daughter.’
‘What are you trying to do?’ Ed asked her. ‘Make me eat ashes for what we just did?’
‘How could I? We both wanted it and we both enjoyed it. And that’s as far as it has to go. No guilt. No recriminations. No nothing.’
‘Are you really that blasé?’ he wanted to know.
She shook her head. ‘I’m not blasé at all. If I was blasé. I’d cling on to you for all I was worth. I wouldn’t care about who you were, and what your farm meant to you. I wouldn’t care about your wife or your daughter.’
‘You don’t care now. Don’t give me that.’
‘I do care, as a matter of fact, because I think you’re somebody special. You’re a nice man. Good-looking, hard-working, and prepared to fight for what you believe in. I wanted to make love with you because I wanted to please you and I wanted to please myself. Now, it’s over.’
‘You mean we’re never going to make love again?’
‘How do I know? I thought it was up to the man to do all the chasing.’
He frowned, and rubbed the back of his hair with his towel. Then he grinned, and chuckled.
‘You know what you are, don’t you?’ he asked her.
‘What am I?’
‘You’re beautiful. That’s all. Just beautiful.’
*
On Friday morning, the president called a delayed news conference and informed the White House Press Corps that he had been holding ‘urgent and concerned meetings’ with the Department of Agriculture, and that he had also talked directly on the telephone with the governors of nine states, including Kansas, Iowa, Montana, Washington, California, and Florida. The damage to crops caused by various blights and diseases was ‘difficult to assess in terms of the nation’s foreseeable lunchpail’ – a phrase which he would later have cause to regret he had ever spoken, and not just for grammatical reasons, either. But most of the governors had believed that the blight situation was ‘containable’ and that food stocks were generally high enough to see them through until next year’s spring crops.
What none of the governors realised was that the blight crisis was already well beyond disaster level. Most of their state agricultural departments had sent samples of the mystifying disease to Washingon for assessment, but Washington had so far given them nothing in return except the words of Shearson Jones – that the federal researchers were ‘on the brink of solving the problem’ and that ‘the agricultural cavalry is on the way.’
By Friday, the truth was that the blight had spread so terrifyingly quickly over crops of all kinds that some kind of antidote treatment would have to be applied by the following Tuesday at the latest to save even fifty per cent of the nation’s expected food production. And despite the reassuring words of Shearson Jones – on which the state governors had based their opinion that the situation was reasonably under control – there was no chance at all that an antidote could be manufactured in sufficient quantities to meet that deadline, even if an antidote were discovered at all.
The media, too, had been lulled into thinking that the blight story was nothing more than a passing problem – like a hurricane, or a snowstorm. It was beyond the imagination of most newspaper and television editors to interpret American life as anything more than a series of transitory crises – headlines that were fresh one day and stale the next. They still hadn’t been able to grasp that the blight could irrevocably alter the whole structure of western society in the time it usually took for the average American to work up an appetite for his next meal. Shearson Jones sa
id nothing to disabuse them, and for lunch on Friday he ate turtle soup, two roasted squab, and a peach crab lantern.
On Friday afternoon, CBS News reported in a special bulletin that the president was now ‘carefully optimistic’ about the national shortfall in food production. Senator Shearson Jones was going to Kansas for the week-end, and he would make a full broadcast about the crisis on Sunday night, when he had been able to judge the effects of the blight first-hand.
Early on Friday evening, a California wine grower went out into his blighted vineyard in the Napa Valley and blew most of his own head off with a 12-bore shotgun. His distraught wife told police that they had struggled for fifteen years to cultivate their own distinctive wines, and that this year had been ‘make or break’ year for their winery.
In Washington, the Federal Crop Insurance Programme announced that ‘very careful screening’ would have to be given to claims for blighted crops. It was possible that claims would be so heavy this year that the programme would not be able to meet all of them out of its own resources.
In Washburn, North Dakota, a farmer called his local radio station to say that the crop blight was caused by ‘bacteria from the moon rocks.’ All the moon rocks should be gathered up at once and fired back into space he insisted.
In Georgetown, shortly after six o’clock, Shearson Jones’s telephone rang, and Billy, his manservant, went to answer it.
*
It was Peter Kaiser. He wanted to know if Shearson was still on schedule for the nine o’clock flight from Dulles to Wichita Mid-Continent Airport. Shearson had just come out of the shower, and he was wrapped in a silk Chinese robe with an electric-blue dragon twisting its way around it. He was smoking a large cigar and he smelled of Signoricci II.
‘I’ll be there,’ he told Peter Kaiser. ‘Barring an act of God, or an unforeseeable disaster.’
‘What about a foreseeable lunchpail?’ asked Peter Kaiser.
Shearson chuckled. ‘Wasn’t that the worst speech ever? I’m surprised the TV people haven’t picked it up already. If we didn’t have this Blight Crisis Appeal going, I’d have gone right in there and torn it to shreds myself. A chicken in every pot, and a mirage in every lunchpail. How that stuffed dummy ever got to be president is beyond me.’
‘He was voted in,’ said Peter.
‘No, he wasn’t. His opponents were voted out. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about him. Tell me how the fund’s going.’
Peter paused as he shuffled through his accounts. Eventually, he said, ‘As of this afternoon, when the banks closed, we had seven million dollars already credited to the Blight Crisis account by special clearance. There were still two million dollars outstanding, and the bank doesn’t expect that money to be through until Tuesday or Wednesday.’
‘What about the Michigan Tractor contribution?’
‘That could take longer. You know what they’re like. Their board hardly ever agrees to meet in emergency session; and when they do, they’ve got five major subsidiaries to take into account. We’ll be lucky if we get their cheque for a week, maybe longer.’
‘But they’ve offered us two million.’
‘I know. Senator. That’s why they’re taking so long about it.’
‘Damn,’ breathed Shearson. ‘I don’t know how much longer we can keep this whole balloon flying. Seven million is a hell of a lot less than I was counting on. And we’re going to lose a million at least in administrative expenses and commissions.’
‘I’m sorry. Senator,’ said Peter. ‘I’m doing my very best to get the money cleared promptly. But I’ve only had three days, and it’s a miracle we’ve gotten so much already. There were twenty-eight corporations involved in raising that seven million. Most of them were already on my list of over-profitables, and they couldn’t get rid of the money fast enough. But from now on in, we’re going to have a far tougher time.’
‘To be quite frank, Peter, I don’t think there’s going to be any “from now on in”,’ breathed Shearson, puffing at his cigar. ‘I’ve done what I can to keep this blight in the right kind of perspective, but if the media don’t realise what’s going on by the middle of next week, then they’re even dumber than I always thought they were.’
‘The president seems to think it’s all under control,’ said Peter.
‘The president’s scared shitless, and he’s clinging on to any and every optimistic statement that anybody comes up with,’ retorted Shearson. ‘How can he possibly turn around to the people of the greediest nation on the face of this earth and say, “I’m sorry, folks, but you’re going to have to do without bread, or corn, or french fries, or Post Toasties”? He’d be dragged out of the White House and publicly crucified.’
‘What about Protter?’ asked Peter. ‘Has he come up with anything yet? I asked him to call you direct if he did, in case I was out.’
‘No. No word from Protter,’ said Shearson. ‘Listen – I’ll meet up with you later. Right now I have to get myself dressed. But start thinking up ways to get that two million out of Michigan Tractors before mid-week.’
‘Okay, Senator. I’ll see you at the airport.’
Shearson put the phone down, but almost immediately it rang again. Billy walked across the parquet hallway with metal-tipped heels that methodically clicked, and picked up the receiver. He listened, and nodded, and finally he said to Shearson, ‘It’s Professor Protter. He says priority.’
‘All right,’ said Shearson. ‘I’ll take it. Bring me a tankard of Dom Perignon, will you? I’m as dry as a hog.’
Professor Protter sounded strained. ‘Senator? I believe I may have some good news for you.’
‘Good news?’ asked Shearson, suspiciously.
‘That’s right. We’ve made some excellent progress on the virus. It was very fortunate. Almost an accident. But the net result is that we may be able to clear most of it up.’ Shearson sucked silently at his cigar.
‘Are you there?’ asked Professor Protter.
‘I’m here,’ said Shearson. ‘Tell me what you’ve found out.’
‘It was Dr Egan’s idea, as a matter of fact. He sent a sample around to the Pentagon’s bacteriological warfare centre, and asked if they could possibly identify it. They spent twenty-four hours going through ten different samples, and then they called us back and said there wasn’t any doubt about it.’
‘Well?’ said Shearson, impatiently.
‘It’s an artificially cultivated virus which bears a strong resemblance to one of our own viruses called Vorar D. It was originally developed as a defoliant for Vietnam, but since then it’s been taken through several different variants. It has the same effect as powdery mildew – it arrests photosynthesis in growing plants – but it also causes very rapid decay and breakdown of the cells. It’s aerobic – which means that it’s transmitted through the air – and it’s not very easy to kill.’
‘I thought you said we could clear most of it away.’
‘I did. The Pentagon already have a formula for sterilising crops that have been infected by Vorar D, and they’re pretty sure they can adapt it to clear away this particular variety. The only problem is that it’s going to take some time.’
‘I see,’ said Shearson.
There was a lengthy silence. Then Professor Protter said, ‘You don’t sound as if you’re particularly pleased.’
‘Pleased? Of course I’m pleased,’ said Shearson.
‘Then what will you do? Will you call the president, and get the authorisation for the sterilising compound to be manufactured right away? Or what?’
‘I hope you’re not trying to dictate my course of action. Professor,’ said Shearson, testily. ‘I need to see a written report on this Vorar D before I can advise the president. And what do we know about this sterilising compound? Federal restrictions are very tight on what we can spray on our crops and what we can’t. Supposing it has dangerous side-effects? Supposing it pollutes water? Supposing it can cause malformation in unborn children?’
‘It�
�s been thoroughly tested,’ said Professor Protter. ‘Maybe it has, but you’re talking about a variant of it. Come on. Professor, the lives and safety of millions of Americans are at stake here. You can’t treat them like guinea-pigs in one of your laboratories.’
‘Senator-it will take weeks to produce sufficient supplies of sterilising compounds and even longer to spray them over all the affected areas. If we don’t set something in motion now, we may be too late. That’s if we’re not too late already.’
Billy arrived with a half-pint silver tankard of cold champagne, which he set down beside Shearson’s telephone. Shearson snapped his fingers at him to bring him a taper for his cigar.
‘What I want you to do. Professor—’ said Shearson, puffing at his cigar again, ‘—what I want you to do is prepare me a complete file on what you’ve discovered so far. Then, when I come back from Kansas on Monday morning. I’ll call a special meeting of the Agriculture Committee, and we can discuss what action we’re going to take.’
‘But Senator—’
‘Don’t “but Senator” me, Professor. Just do what you’re told.’
‘Senator, this is one time when I’m going to say no. The situation is urgent, we have the means to do something about it. Two days could make all the difference. I’m going to go way over your head with this information, and if I still don’t get anywhere. I’m going to the press.’
‘Professor,’ rumbled Shearson, gently. ‘I very much advise you against doing that.’
‘Try and stop me,’ snapped Professor Protter, and slammed his phone down.
Shearson held his own receiver in his hand for a few seconds, staring at it thoughtfully. Then, almost inaudibly, he said to Billy, ‘Get me Peter Kaiser again.’
*
At eight forty-five p.m., Karen Fortunoff was still waiting by the gate at Dulles Airport for Peter Kaiser to join her. She was wearing a smart camel-coloured suit, and she had bought herself a new week-end case especially for the trip. The flight had already been called twice, and she didn’t know if she ought to board the plane, with the risk that Peter wouldn’t make it in time, and that she would have to fly to Wichita alone – or if she should wait for him to arrive, and risk missing the flight altogether.
Famine Page 15
